Chapter Eleven
“Enough about that.” His hold loosened. “I have a present for you, if you would use it.”
“What?” That had come so far out of left field, she floundered a moment. “I—thank you. What is it?”
He reached into his pocket. “It’s a pair of earrings. Are your ears pierced?”
“Yes…” She blinked at him in confusion. How on earth could it be relevant for him to give her a pair of earrings right now?
Taking one of her hands, he dropped them into her palm. She fingered them, frowning. Small and still warm from being in his pocket, they felt like they were simple ball studs with round metal backs.
As she explored them with her fingers, he told her, “They’re very humble and plain, I’m afraid. They’re made with silver and they’re quite small. They look like something a servant might wear, but I’ve spelled them with telepathy.”
“Telepathy earrings…,” she breathed.
She didn’t know about Avalon, but on Earth there was a booming industry for magic items. Quite a few magic users used items to expand or enhance their abilities, and many deadhead humans liked exploring and using magic items. Telepathy earrings were one of the most common and affordable commodities on the market.
Curious, Sid had bought a pair and tried them once, but she found the sensation of hearing someone else’s voice in her head so uncomfortable she never wore them.
“I don’t like not being able to talk with you telepathically,” he said. “There are sharp ears in this castle. We’re fine for now. Most of the castle is asleep, and at the moment, there’s no one near this room. But there may come a time when we need to talk while someone else is close by. Would you consider wearing them?”
She turned them over in her hands. “I didn’t do so well with the earrings the first time I tried them. Telepathy felt too strange and intrusive, but at the time it didn’t matter if I got used to them or not. I’m certainly willing to try them again, but won’t somebody notice?”
The smile came back into his voice. She loved it when she heard him smile. It warmed his deep whisper. “Trust me, the spell I infused in those earrings is so subtle and insignificant no one will notice it at all. Telepathy is something even the youngest Light Fae child can do, and besides, there are flares of magic all over that fill the senses. Magic is imbedded in artwork, in weapons, sometimes utensils, the witchlights—those globes fastened to the walls—and most of the nobles are wearing much more Powerful items of jewelry. Many, including Isabeau, are wearing multiple pieces at once.”
“What do the witchlights do?” Her gaze slid sideways to eye the nearest one curiously.
“They’re simple illumination spells. You can activate them with a touch.” He paused. “Or at least, those with a spark of magic can activate them. But don’t worry, most rooms also have a few candles too.”
She sighed. “Normally I don’t care about being magicless, but the way you describe things makes me realize just how much I’m not seeing in the world around me.”
He cupped her head with both hands. “You’re full of your own kind of magic, and it’s much more rare and beautiful than all the other spells around you. They are commonplace. You are unique.”
She flushed all over at hearing his words, her body warming with pleasure. “Thank you,” she whispered. “If you think we can get away with it, I’d be glad to try the earrings.”
“Excellent.” He paused. “Have they searched you or shown any interest in what you might be carrying?”
She snorted. “Not at all. They probably scanned me for dangerous magic, and I just didn’t know it. But I still have the worry stones I picked up on the caravan trip. Nobody’s checked what I have in my pockets or even asked me what my name is. The indifference has been staggering. If I’d had an inflated ego, it would have been trampled to death days ago.” She thought for a moment. “The one person who might notice is the woman who cut my hair. Her name is Kallah. She’s Isabeau’s… what do the Light Fae call it? Lady-in-waiting?”
“They’re called court ladies here,” he told her. “Kallah is smart and observant. You’ll want to be careful about wearing the earrings around her when she has the leisure to notice you, at least until you have some plausible explanation for having acquired them. Other than that, I think you’ll be okay. Everyone knows you don’t have magic.”
“Okay. Let’s try them!” Eager to know what his telepathic voice sounded like, she pulled the small metal back off one of the posts and poked along her skin until she felt it slide into the piercing in her lobe. Quickly, she fastened the back and slipped on the other earring.
“Got it?” he asked.
She nodded. “Got it.”
“Good. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Why did she suddenly feel so nervous? Clasping her hands together, she told him, “Ready. I think.”
He settled both hands on her shoulders. Then a deep, rich voice sounded in her head. Hello, Sidonie.
Gasping, she gripped his forearms and her legs wobbled.
His fingers tightened. Are you all right?
She gasped again, while the world seemed to spin around her. “Yes,” she breathed. “Your voice in my head… it’s so intimate. How can you stand to do this all the time with just anybody?”
A soft laugh escaped him. That’s a perspective I’ve never considered before, he told her. It makes sense now that you’ve said it, but when children use telepathy from a very early age, it becomes just another way of talking.
As she listened to him, she had to clap both hands over her mouth to stifle the incoherent sound of glee that escaped. Listening to his telepathic voice sent shivers down her back. She loved it. Loved!
After a hesitation, he asked, Is it okay?
Should she confess how delighted she was, or that she never wanted him to stop talking to her? She would listen to him say anything. He could read the phone book to her, and she would love it.
Unsteadily, she told him, “It’s great. It’s just a huge adjustment. The last time I tried telepathy earrings, I couldn’t get the shop assistant out of my head fast enough, but you’re different. I… I trust you.” Even though she had said it softly, the last three words seemed to echo in the music hall. He had gone silent and tense. Listening to the implications in what she had just said, she added lamely, “At least, for tonight, I do.”
He released the breath she had sensed him holding. Good. Now, you try talking to me. Just reach out, like you would if you looked across the room and tried to catch my gaze.
She thought that through for a moment. Then she shouted, HELLO? ARE YOU THERE?
He recoiled as if she’d slapped him. Then he burst out laughing. The sound was so foreign to anything thus far that they had shared together, she stared.
Why, yes. His telepathic voice sounded strangled. I am indeed right here, and you just made a hell of a noise. Try to tone it down next time.
Sorry, she said loudly, scowling from the intensity of concentration. Is this better?
He laughed harder. There’s no need to strain, or shout, and for God’s sake, don’t make faces like that! In fact, you can whisper telepathically, and I would hear you perfectly fine.
Her scowl deepened, but she didn’t really mind him laughing at her. It sounded good and healthy, almost as if they were enjoying themselves as they carried on a normal conversation about normal things.
God, she wished they could have a normal conversation about normal things. Whatever normal might mean to him. She was sure any conversation she had with him would be as exotic as the ones they’d already shared. She just wanted to talk with him and be easy together without having everything feeling fraught with impending doom. The brief moment of levity made her aware just how starved she was for more.
Heaving a gusty sigh, she whispered, How’s this?
Still intense, but much better, he told her. We can practice as much as you like.
“That would be good,” she said aloud, quietly. “I need to be sure I don’t look like a grimacing fool when I telepathize, but how do I know I’m going to reach you instead of someone else?”
He switched to speaking aloud too. “That’s easier than you might think. If you focus on me, you will contact me. If you focus on someone else—for example, Kallah, Modred, Isabeau, a guard, or one of the dogs—you would contact them. But of course, the dogs don’t have telepathy, so you wouldn’t get a response back.”
“Oh, of course,” she echoed with a touch of sarcasm, when in fact she didn’t know any such thing. As far as she knew, every dog in Avalon could have been a telepathic, talking dog.
“Just remember, the earrings have a range of about twice the size of this music hall,” he told her. “More like the size of the castle great hall. If you can’t contact me, I’m not in range. We can practice as much as you like until you’re completely comfortable with it.”
“Maybe later. I’m getting a headache,” she murmured as she glanced at the lute on the table. Her earlier glee evaporated, leaving her feeling dull and afraid. “The earrings are wonderful, and I’m glad you thought of them, but they’re not going to solve my immediate problem.”
That whole impending-doom thing had to go and rear its ugly head again.
“No, they’re not, are they?” He strode over to the table and fingered the lute. “But I think I know what will.”
She hated not knowing what to call him. It was bugging her more and more as time passed. She even hated it more than not being able to see what he looked like. She had grown accustomed to the play of shadows across his face, attuned to the nuances and shifts in emotion in his body language and in his quietly murmured words.
As odd as it sounded, she had even grown accustomed to touching him and being touched. She had more than grown accustomed. She looked forward to it. She… yearned for it. His touch brought comfort and reassurance at a time when she badly needed both.
Every time his fingers brushed her skin, it was like sunlight and fresh, sparkling water to a dying plant. She needed food to survive, but when he touched her, it nourished her in ways that nothing else ever had.
By comparison, not knowing his name was growing to feel like sand in a shallow cut. It was abrasive and wrong. And assigning an arbitrary name to him didn’t help.
Fred. John. Thomas. They were all empty syllables that carried no meaning.
Magic Man. At least that had meaning.
“Okay, Magic Man,” she said as she walked over to his side. “What’s next?”
* * *
Magic Man.
When he heard the nickname she had given him, he smiled.
She had been traumatized in a way that few people ever endured. She was still in danger, afraid, and vulnerable to the malignant forces all around her, and yet here she walked toward him, ready to hear what he had to say.
Bravery wasn’t facing something you knew you could vanquish, he thought. Bravery was facing the impossible and saying, what’s next?
“I know a spell,” he told her.
She chuckled quietly and touched his shoulder in a quick, affectionate gesture. “Of course you do. What is it?”
“It’s actually a battle spell,” he replied. “You can transfer your skills to another person for a battle. The effects are temporary, and the spell is draining for both people, so it isn’t something anyone would cast lightly. In battle, using it tends to be an act of desperation, in an all-or-nothing kind of scenario, because if you’re in a situation where you need to cast it, it’s unlikely either participant will survive anyway. The times I’ve seen it used were when warriors were battling for the greater good. One badly wounded soldier cast the spell to transfer his abilities to a younger man. They both died that day, but they were able to guard a narrow pass long enough for reinforcements to arrive, which saved their settlement from an invading force.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, and he sensed her shiver. “Sounds grim.”
Putting an arm around her, he drew her against his side. “It is, rather. But here’s the thing—I’ve played both the lute and the harp before. Once, I played them quite well. But that was quite a long time ago.”
As she tilted back her head, he caught a shadowed glimpse of her sparkling, elegant eyes. “Just how old are you?”
“Very old,” he replied. “I stopped aging when I was thirty-seven. That was when Isabeau trapped me with the geas.”
Leaning against him, she turned her face into his shoulder and sighed. “I daydream about tearing her face off.”
That was so unexpectedly bloodthirsty, he coughed out a laugh. “As do I,” he told her. Obeying an impulse he didn’t want to examine too closely, he pressed his lips to her forehead and said against her soft, creamy skin, “As do I.”
Whenever she came close, he wanted to touch her, stroke her face, cradle her slender body against his, rest his cheek on top of her head. Touching her had awakened a hunger he hadn’t felt in centuries, or perhaps ever.
In his human life, he had been self-contained and autonomous, driven by his intellectual passions, the pursuit of magic, and the brilliant realization of political ambitions. Sex had been enjoyable but not something he had obsessed over, and he hadn’t needed the kind of physical demonstrations of affection that so many other people seemed to need from their lovers.
This compulsion to touch Sidonie was completely foreign to him. He didn’t understand why he had grown to need it or why it had to be her that he touched.
But it did have to be her. He wasn’t interested in seeking or offering comfort to anyone else.
Frowning, he loosened his hold on her shoulders. “The only way to know if the spell will work is to try it. Which instrument do you want to focus on?”
She blew out a sigh. “It should be the lute. I’ll have the best chance to learn and play that quickly—or at least quicker than the other instruments. I’d enjoy exploring the harp, but that will take more time.”
He liked and respected the confidence with which she spoke about her musical ability as she assessed the challenges in front of her and what she could do to meet them. When it came to music, she knew herself very well. Right now, her attitude was akin to that of a master swordsman surveying a battlefield.
Reaching around her, he picked up the lute. “Come with me.”
She followed him as he walked over to one end of the couch and sat. Snagging a footstool, he dragged it over to position it between his knees. “Have a seat here and put your back to me.”
“Okay.” She settled on the footstool, facing away from him.
He leaned forward and reached around her waist to put the lute in her lap. “I think you’re right,” he said in her ear. “A lot of what you already know from playing the guitar will be applicable to the lute, so it was a good choice. But there’s a lot that’s different as well.”
A subtle shiver ran over her, all but undetectable. She leaned back against him. “For one thing, a guitar has six strings, and this one has fifteen.”
“This is a Renaissance lute. Baroque lutes have even more strings. You won’t use a nail to play it either. You’ll use your fingers to pluck at the strings, or maybe for some songs use double-plucking. On the fretboard, you can also move the frets—they’re not fixed in place.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice that.”
“Plus you hold it differently than you would a guitar.” Putting his arms around her, he positioned the lute against her chest and adjusted her arms and hands. “Like this.”
“Got it,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “What about my right hand?”
“Feel for your position by touching the soundboard with your little finger, and tuck your thumb in, which is the opposite of how you’d play a guitar.” He ran his fingers along her hand, readjusting as necessary. “More like that.”
“Ah. That is very different.”
The sense of her leaning back against his chest was messing with his concentration. Her slim, lithe body felt like a perfect fit in his arms. Huskily, he told her, “Put your hand over mine, so you can feel how mine feels in the correct position.”
Readily, she complied, lifting her hand away. As he positioned his hand over the strings, she laid hers lightly over the top, her sensitive, clever fingers fitting themselves along the backs of his.
He played a simple melody slowly, allowing her to feel how his hand moved along the strings as he plucked and double-plucked at them. “Do you see?”
“Yes.” Her reply sounded husky. She cleared her throat. “It’s a completely different technique than what I’m used to.”
“You’re not going to develop a solid technique in two days,” he murmured. “I can imagine that will be frustrating, especially since your violin playing is so flawless and transcendent. But all we need to do is to get you to produce something that sounds enjoyable to someone who doesn’t know how to play the lute herself. Perfecting your technique can come later.”
“I’m not used to the neck being so short,” she complained. “The only way to get comfortable with it is by practicing, and the only way to practice enough is over time.”
“True,” he replied. “But that’s where the battle spell should help. It should give you a feeling like an epiphany as the ability to play infuses your mind and body. It won’t last, and you’ll be drained afterward, but if Isabeau wants you to play in the evening, you should be able to go to bed shortly after you finish.”
“That’s if your spell works,” Sidonie said darkly. “You said you weren’t even sure you remembered how to play.”
“The memories are there,” he said. “I just have to access them. Besides, the only way we’ll know is if we try. Are you ready?”
Her shoulders tensed. “Yes. Will it hurt?”
“What, the spell itself?” Having been immersed in magic his entire life, he tended to forget how very little she knew of magic, spells, and Power. “No, not at all. It should feel exhilarating, like a surge of adrenaline.”
“Okay, good.” She relaxed again.
In order to cast the spell, he had to think back and immerse himself in the memory of playing. Aside from this night, he wasn’t sure when the last time was that he’d picked up a lute, let alone played one.
Thankfully the spell didn’t have to be based on the last time. It could be based on an earlier memory.
When he cast back far enough, a memory surfaced.
It had been a hot afternoon, and much of the court had been relaxing by the cool of a deep river. There had been food and wine, and people had napped, read, and talked while Morgan had leaned with his back against the trunk of a willow tree, looked out at the silver sparkles on the sunlit water, and let his mind wander lazily as he plucked the notes of one of his favorite songs.
He’d been happy then, at peace and relaxed. While there had certainly been challenges to face, he’d had absolute confidence they would overcome them. They’d still had so much to build in their thriving, young kingdom….
He didn’t realize that he had tensed, and his breathing had shortened, until Sidonie leaned her head back against his shoulder and tilted her face to him.
She asked, “What’s wrong?”
The breath from her words touched his cheek in small, warm puffs. He had to force a swallow before he could reply in a bare thread of sound. “This is difficult for me.”
She leaned her cheek against his and asked sympathetically, “Is the spell that difficult to cast?”
He had taken pains to make sure she had no idea who he was, but still a small snort escaped him. “No,” he said. “It’s not the spell. It’s the memories. I was… happy then.”
Immediately, she pushed the lute away, arched, and twisted. As she came to face him, she put her arms around his neck and hugged him.
“If this is difficult for you, then we won’t do it,” she told him. “I’ll think of something else. Maybe I can throw myself down a flight of stairs or something. If I have an accident, she can’t expect me to play so soon, can she?”
Both warmed by her concern and alarmed at the direction of her thoughts, he dropped the lute on a nearby cushion and pulled her closer. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are not going to injure yourself just because I don’t like looking back. The past is done, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. What is happening right now is the most important thing—now and what can be done for the future. And we can do something about that.”
“I don’t like the thought of you being in pain,” she persisted stubbornly. “You have done so much to help me, when the truth is you don’t owe me anything.”
“For God’s sake, Sidonie,” he said, exasperated as he cupped the back of her head. “Now is not the time to start refusing my help. Otherwise, you run the risk of undoing everything I’ve done for you already. Now stop arguing about this, and let me get back to casting that spell.”
Her body felt tight with tension. She told him, “And I don’t like the fact that after everything you’ve done for me, I still don’t know your name. You call me by name all the time, and I can’t do the same with you.”
His arms tightened. “We’re not having that conversation again.”
“I don’t see why not. You should at least promise to tell me who you are after we know Isabeau has accepted whatever cockamamie story you cooked up to explain how I got healed in an underground prison.”
“Are you always so stubborn and single-minded?” he demanded.
Even as they argued, he realized he didn’t want her to know who he was. He didn’t want her to look at him with the same kind of fear that he saw in other people’s faces when they looked at him.
The man who played music by a river was as dead as the others in his memory. He had become someone much harder, more cruel, and ruthless. The shadows gave him a sort of anonymity, a certain distance from the man he had become, and he was not in a hurry to give that up.
When she laughed, she sounded genuinely amused. “Stubborn and single-minded are my middle names. I also have a growing problem with OCD, and you know why? Because I can’t let go of things, and I can’t relax. I never give up on anything, ever.”
He could believe that. All those qualities had gotten her where she was. She was tenacious, strong-willed, exasperating. Talented.
Adorable.
With her face tilted up to his, the subtle edge of moonlight touched along the edge of one high cheekbone, the tilted edge of one eye, and those beautiful, enticing lips. Obeying an impulse he couldn’t put into words, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.
As his lips touched hers, he felt her quick intake of breath. Then he lost himself in the shock of rare pleasure as he kissed that full, sensual mouth.
A shudder ran through her, then her arms tightened, and she kissed him back.
She kissed him back.
Her mouth moved under his, lips parting to allow him access. A rush of euphoria hit him, clean, sharp, and all-encompassing. He bent her back and lost himself in voracious pleasure, spearing her with his tongue as he ravished her luscious, plump mouth.
She made a tiny sound. It was both throaty and surprised at once, and it went straight to his cock. As he grew erect, he came back to himself with a jolt.
When was the last time he had felt such sexual tension, such sensual pleasure?
He couldn’t remember.
But he did remember how inappropriate this was. He had no business kissing her. He had no business touching her or thinking about her in this way. She was trapped and in danger, and his life literally was not his own.
She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t trust him. He couldn’t trust himself.
It was nearly impossible to pull away from her giving responsiveness. Breathing hard, he lifted his head and said hoarsely, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have done that.”
With a soft growl, she sank her fingers in his hair and raised herself up so that she could kiss him back. This time she was the aggressor, and as she darted her tongue into his mouth, his erection tightened to the point of pain. Each of her fingers sent tingling sensations across his scalp, while her lips shifted and moved over his in an irresistible siren’s call.
For long moments, he lost himself in her. As he ran one hand down the side of her torso, she arched herself up to his touch like a cat asking to be stroked. He wanted—needed—to tear off her clothes and lose himself in the voluptuous heat of her slender, muscular body.
But in a distant corner of his mind, unease began to jangle. It grew louder quickly.
They had gone from one impulsive kiss to a level of raw, urgent need that was unbalanced and dangerous. If only he could remember why it was so dangerous…
He dragged his mouth away from hers. It was much harder to do the second time around, and both of them were breathing raggedly.
For long moments, they each held tense. He couldn’t force his fingers to relax and let go of her.
He wanted to never let go of her.
That last thought was like a bucket of cold water hitting him in the face.
If there was anyone in the entire world who shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like that, it was him.
As his hands loosened, she gave a little ghost of a laugh. In a shaken whisper, she said, “That escalated fast.”
“Too fast,” he gritted. “I had no business kissing you like that.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly object, did I?” she pointed out. She slid her fingers out of his hair with a slow sensuousness that heated his blood.
Catching one of her hands, he kissed it. “No,” he agreed against her fingers. “You didn’t. And I didn’t want to stop. But this isn’t going to get you through your audience with Isabeau. That’s what we need to focus on right now.”
Straightening on the footstool, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Of course it is,” she agreed in a flat, dull voice.
Had he hurt her feelings? He rubbed his face then decided to let it go, because even if he had, it didn’t matter.
Reaching for the lute, he thrust it into her hands. “Time to find out if that spell will actually work,” he told her.
Cradling the lute against her chest, she asked, “And if it doesn’t?”
If it didn’t, he had no idea what to try next.
Infusing his voice with a confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”